John Lescroart - The 13th Juror

Barely nodding to the assemblage, telling everyone that, first thing, he needed five minutes alone with her, Hardy entered the room and closed the door behind him.

She smiled weakly, greeting him. He saw immediately that her breathing was shallow, her color bad, too pale. "Are you all right? Should you be walking around?"

She nodded. "They let me out this morning. I'm just a little weak. I thought this would help," she said. "Anyway, if I came down here, maybe I could see Jennifer."

"We can probably arrange that. But what do these guys want?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. The inspector I saw in the hospital – Manion? – he said they weren't going to charge me with anything, and then when… when Phil…" She forced a breath. "Anyway, after Phil died the younger man came out and asked if I'd cooperate."

"If you'd cooperate? He said that?"

This wasn't adding up. Either they were going to charge her or they weren't, and either way there was no point in getting her downtown in her condition to sit in an interrogation room at the homicide detail. He also wondered about the party outside – Bariste, Glitsky, Manion, Terrell. Everybody hanging around waiting on an interview with a woman they weren't going to charge with anything?

"Have you talked to them yet?" he asked.

But before she could answer, there was a loud buzz outside, clearly audible even inside their room. They stood and Hardy opened the door. The District Attorney himself, Christopher Locke, had come in, trailed by Dean Powell and half the television cameras in America.

It was all getting clearer.

Hardy didn't look at Locke. Their feelings about each other had been aired the year before. He walked into the main room, around Locke and up to Powell. "You know, Dean, this is pretty outrageous. Not to mention insulting."

Terrell stepped forward, out of the pack, explaining to Powell: "She asked for her attorney." Why should Terrell be explaining to Powell?

"I don't know what you're talking about," Powell said to Hardy.

"I'll tell you what I'm talking about." The room continued to backfill with camera-wielding humanity. "I'm talking about this media circus. I'm talking about using this woman's" – there was Nancy, standing by the door – "about using this woman's personal tragedy so that the jury in her daughter's trial can read about it with their coffee tomorrow morning, and not incidentally so you can be on television again just before election day."

"That's ridiculous."

"I don't think so, I think it's on the money. I think you had Terrell sitting in the wings at Shriner's in case Jennifer's father died so you could drag his wife down here in front of the cameras… Like mother, like daughter. Right?" Hardy wished California sequestered its juries.

Frank Batiste was a no-nonsense professional cop who was out-gunned by the brass here, but he was in charge in this room, his domain. He moved forward toward the press of media. "Would all of you please step outside the door now?" He was herding them, prodding. "Just back up there. Thank you." When the last camera had gone, he closed the door and turned back to the room, suppressing a smile. "I'm sure they'll wait."

Locke thought he was trying to take charge. "It's the District Attorney's decision whether or not to charge a person with a crime, not the police department's."

"Hey, I already wrote it up." Manion, DA or no DA, had done his report and he wasn't about to stand by while his professionalism was questioned. "If this wasn't self-defense, you can have my badge."

"I'm not saying it wasn't." Locke as usual, in Hardy's view, was temporizing until he saw which way the wind was blowing. "But it is my decision."

Hardy didn't dispute that, but it wasn't the issue. "Why is Dean here then, Chris? You want to explain that one?"

This drew blood, but Locke recovered quickly. "Mr. Powell is a Senior Assistant District Attorney. He's got every right to be here."

Batiste took another step forward. "No question, sir. So you've decided to charge this woman? You want us to take her upstairs and book her?" Hardy didn't know Batiste well, but suddenly he decided he admired him. There was no irony in his tone; in fact, it was punctiliously correct. He was telling the District Attorney that if he had his facts right they should proceed with the next administrative step.

He was also calling Locke's bluff.

The District Attorney stood there flat-footed. The room, even without the media, felt jammed and overheated – Locke, Batiste, Powell, Terrell, Manion, Nancy, Hardy, three other homicide guys who happened to be there when it began. Locke for the first time looked at Nancy DiStephano, who was leaning wearily against the doorjamb to the interrogation room, her arms crossed, protecting her broken ribs.

"I haven't read the arresting officer's report," Locke said. "I was under the impression…" He stopped. "After I read it, I'll make my decision."

Powell followed him out, "no commenting" all the way down the hall. In the homicide room there was a long silence. Finally Batiste spoke to Terrell. "The District Attorney's office hires its own investigators, Walt. You want to be one, go apply. I'll expedite the paperwork." He walked into his office.

Hardy walked back over to Nancy, who by now looked to be on the verge of fainting. Hardy got her to the chair, helped her down. She was panting from the exertion. Glitsky joined them. "She could have called Freeman or you. I told her you were probably closer."

Hardy put a hand on Glitsky's shoulder, squeezing it, a thank you. "How about I take you home, Nancy?"

She was obviously in pain but she looked up at him, shaking her head. "Would you mind? I'd like to see Jennifer if that's okay."

After a short rest she felt she could handle the walk to the elevators, the short ride to the seventh floor.

When she got out of the elevator into the barred bullpen outside the heavy doors of the jail, Nancy put her hand to her mouth, a caricature of shock, except Hardy was certain it was genuine. There was the liniment of sweat smell – familiar to him. The way the sounds rang if they were close by – the elevator, the lock in the bullpen door, keys jangling. Far off, half-heard, haunting, voices were muffled yet the low hum was constant. They heard somebody scream, the crash of something being thrown. It was dinnertime.

Nancy clutched at his arm. "I didn't know it was…" She didn't finish. She didn't have to. Nobody knew what it was like until they'd been there. "I should have come down, but Phil…" Hardy knew that one too – Phil wouldn't let her.

He'd gotten permission for Nancy to enter the tiny attorney's room at the women's jail. He was by the door as it opened when they led Jennifer in.

Nancy was sitting across the small room. She bit her lip, her face tilted up. The door closed. "Did they tell you about your father?"

Jennifer nodded, her hands flat against her sides. Nancy stood up, took a tentative step forward toward her daughter.

"Jenn…"

She barely whispered it. "Oh, Mom…"

They stood there, unmoving. Nancy held her hands out and Jennifer moved to her uncertainly. They came together, embracing, Nancy's arms around her daughter's neck, her face twisted with the agony of her broken ribs but not letting go, squeezing, from Hardy's perspective, as tight as she could.

"I have to find it."

"No," Freeman said, "you've got to drop it."

"I don't have anything else. The woman doesn't have any friends. She's got a mother, but that's the only trace of her past. She's legally as sane as you or me. This is the only chance. I've got to pursue it."

They were in Hardy's office. It was closing on eleven. He had remained in the interview room, a fly on the wall, for the hour that mother and daughter had talked or, more precisely, tried to reestablish some connection. It had been strained a lot of the time, with long silences and frequent tears, but they had held hands throughout and everything was personal – they never mentioned Jennifer's case.